


Roses in the Hospital

by Aris



Series: Poetic Nonsense [8]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, M/M, Underweight!Loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 11:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2189424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/pseuds/Aris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His first thought is how <em>pale</em> Loki is, the sheets flowing out from his body almost poetic and a tone lighter than his skin, his pose lax and faux welcoming - a sick shadow of art, renaissance angels, wires for halos, Michelangelo's sculptures hewn into a hospital bed.</p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <em>Roses in the hospital</em><br/><em>I want to cling to something soft</em><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	Roses in the Hospital

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of lame, and I feel like I could have written it a lot better. But it's 3am and [this picture](http://tonyloki-kami.tumblr.com/post/89902036083/napping-peacefully) along with [ this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gAARKVbU4LU) gave me a lot of feelings I had to write out. I might come back and patch things up later.
> 
> Warning: unedited! Mistakes ahoy.

Tony is nervous.

He fidgets, his hands running over each other, moving to tap on his thighs and pull at his the collar of his t-shirt, eyes darting to his watch, to the clock on the wall, to the door he last saw the nurse disappear through. There's a restless energy running through him, practically thrumming under his skin, begging him to move, to get up, to find _Loki_. But he knows he can't - not yet. He knows but it doesn't help, makes it worse, even. Loki is close, so close, and Tony itches at his arm at the thought, shifting in his position on a chair in the visitors waiting area of the hospital.

The room is stark white, it's walls long and uninterrupted by decoration, the floor a dull, wiry grey carpet that is beaten down from wheelchairs and feet and has odd spots of gum entrenched deeply in its minute grooves. There's a desk, at the front, behind it a man with pinched back dreadlocks sits, eyes focused on the computer, the white light spilling over his dark skin. At every door to a doctors office there are thick glass windows shadowed by blinds, and out of the main entrance Tony sees nothing but the abrupt darkness of the outside world, a pathway of concrete fading away towards small green lights that signify a carp park. He notes all this in this worry, trying to distract himself from the second, minutes, hours that inch by - though, despite it all, the tick of a sounds clock is mockingly loud to is alert ears.

One,

Two,

He closes his eyes on the bright lighting, lowering his face down to his hands and rubbing at the tiredness worming it's way at the edges of his eyes and at the crown of his forehead. He's been here for hours, the crumpled foam coffee mugs at his side signify to that, waiting and waiting, twitching up at every hospital worker that walked through and carefully avoiding the eyes of other pale faced visitors who share the room with him. Tear up the cup - three, four, five pieces. Get up. Pour a coffee. Is that a doctor? Check the time. Again. Again. God, what if he - 

"Mr Stark?" 

Tony stands up immediately, his hands falling awkwardly on his thighs at abruptness but he's too tense to notice. A ginger haired woman looks him up and down from the entrance of a hallway, clearly recognising him, but she blessedly doesn't comment. "Mr Laufeyson has cleared you for entry." She gestures towards the door she stands in, motioning that Tony follows. Forgetting the shredded remains of his cups, Tony quickly does, a anxious spring in his step as matches her quick pace, his hands falling to his pockets, twisting inside them.

"He is currently on an Nasogastric feeding tube," She looks over briefly, "As recommended by Dr. Koplet, and due to his refusal to eat. He is hooked up to an IV as well as machines to monitor various aspects of his health, so it's asked that you're careful not to disturb any of these. They can be uncomfortable if accidentally pulled out. If you have any sharp objects be sure to divest yourself of them before entering the room." Tony nods - he has nothing - his anxiety numbing at the realisation it's _this_ again, feeding tubes and suicide watch. 

_Oh, Loki._

They walk in silence the rest of the way, Tony following behind her as she weaves through corridors and up a stairs at one point. He forgets how large hospitals are, and is given plenty of time to work up apprehension of seeing Loki, of touching him, holding him. It hurts to know he wasn't there, didn't see him getting bad again, didn't - he bites at his cheek, cramming his thoughts down for a moment. He can't cry. Not now.

Stop.

A door opens.

Tony steps in.

His first thought is how _pale_ Loki is, the sheets flowing out from his body almost poetic and a tone lighter than his skin, his pose lax and faux welcoming - a sick shadow of art, renaissance angels, wires for halos, Michelangelo's sculptures hewn into a hospital bed. He sees, a god - he sees, pale, faded, lifeless, cadaverous -

Loki's eyes open, and Tony barely contains a wretched sob. They're the same vivid green, even more so when everything is so _whitewhitewhite_ and they're alive, so wonderfully alive. Before he knows it, he's at Loki's side, scrambling for those dry skeletal hands, rubbing the boney digits between his callouses, eyes fixed on the lazy half lids that watch him from below dark heavy lashes. Tony tries not to see the equally dark shadows under the eyes, the purple-black pits dug out by exhaustion hanging heavy on that heavenly green, but it's another pound to his guilt, another point to his list of _how the fuck didn't you notice this_ and he almost sobs again, already feeling moisture build in his eyes.

A smile, small and weak and everything Loki isn't, pulls at the deities lips. Loki's face looks young and heartbreakingly wondrous as he stares back at Tony, that small curving of his lips something Tony feels like he could worship for the rest of his life. He falls to his knees at the bedside, still clutching tightly to Loki's nearest hand, and buries his head into one exposed, too-thin shoulder. His world is within Loki's lukewarm heat, in his familiar, masculine smell that speaks of leather and fighting and, in the faintest of ways, freshwater. It's familiar and curls around Tony's heart in unspeakable ways, elusive and grounding all at once. 

There's a soft utterance, a timid 'Oh,' and then Loki's hand is there, running across the tears Tony didn't know he was crying, interrupting their downward track. The bads of his fingers are soft, and this close Tony can see the the rough skin on his knuckles, the slight vertical scratched running down his fingers, and it pulls at his heartstrings like a dull ache. He left one hand go and reaches for the wrist of Loki's raised one, cradling it in his hand and rubbing his thumb against the old scars that are still, thankfully, old. He would never forgive himself if Loki had - if Loki had started that again. He should have _noticed_. 

He presses his lips to the knuckle of the ring finger, the ones he's seen shoved down Loki's throat too many times, and his lips tremble over it. It feels so bare beneath his lips, so small. Tont eyes squeeze shut and he begins to cry, properly, this time, holding Loki's hand tight against his cheek, one of his fingers pressed firmly to his pulse. Loki's fine, Loki's here, he can fix this again. They can get through this. 

Loki coos at him quietly, his other hand moving to stroke at Tony neck, and Tony's sure he's the one that should be comforting Loki, should be holding his hand and telling him everything is alright. He wants to be there for Loki, wants to help, but this wretched, narcissistic pain bears down on him and all he can seek is Loki's skin, the reassurance Loki is alive and here. He was so _worried_ when he got the call about Loki fainting, and now Loki was - was.

"I'm sorry," Tony chokes out, pulling his face up from the slip shoulder, guilt suddenly overwhelming him, "I'm sup- supposed to be - be the one who..." but Loki just hushes him gently, continuing his small, rhythmic strokes, that small smile resting on his face still, bursting with this quiet adoration that still gives Tony butterflies in his stomach, even after all these years.

"Come up here, darling," Loki says, voice strained and catching, discomfort written all over his features. The tube, Tony realises, the one that strings all the way down to his stomach. Slowly, Tony stands once more, Loki;s hands falling from his face as he rises out of range. He looks at the bed, at Tony's bare torso and tiny form, and it aches so much, so fucking much. Loki starts to pull himself more to the side, but Tony is quick to stop him, hands settling on his hips.

"No, you're, " He lets out a bitter laugh, "You're hardly taking up any room," And it's all so _whitewhitewhite _as he lifts his feet from his shoes and slips into next to Loki, above the covers, gently handling the wires so they fall over him. Tony pulls himself up, laying against the back of the bed and guides Loki lightly towards him, skimming his fingertips against prominent bone and abyss-like dips between. Loki lays his head on Tony, one arm winding around his thigh in a plea to be close while the other lies limp at his side, the IV jutting from it. Tony won't look, can't look at the tubes feeding into Loki's nose, and instead rests at stroking Loki's hair, uncaring of its state, taking deep comfort at the weight of Loki, no matter how slight, against his body.__

__He tries not to think about the why, or the how, and focuses steadily on the _now_. Loki is in his arms, Loki is safe, if not forever but for the moment, and that's - that's enough._ _


End file.
